‘Quite wrong, monsieur. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. This formidable person, who was no other than the renowned Figg, the "Atlas of the sword," as he is termed by Captain Godfrey, had removed his hat and "skull covering," and was wiping the heat from his bepatched and closeshaven pate. ‘What would you do in Valade’s place?’ ‘You mean, knowing that the girl was here and liable to queer my pitch?’ ‘Precisely. I learned of your betrothal, gleaned all the information I could simply by eavesdropping. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. I'll be feeling fine in no time.
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